Once S: We can write this slice again
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Author: Leila Sadeghi

Translator: Prof. Farzad Sharifian

                

 

                                                                                        

                                       

There are four slices which turn into cage.
There is a circle which is a square.
It is a square which has four walls of prison.
There are some words which describe a second.

 

First slice:
Just a second is enough to fill the time. The time I think about it just a minute. Today and yesterday are a little the same. The phone starts ringing. My lover says he is waiting for me behind the door. I wear my nice dress, and at the door I am addressed. We speak. We are going on the peak, we don't speak. He as a lead closed my eyelid. We just walk. A bit of a stalk. Words walk by talk. Life is nice. Weather is nice. Nice to meet you too. He is nice. I am nice. All the people are the same. Today and yesterday are not the same.

Second slice:
It is his birthday cake, which is her cage. I look at here from upstairs. I am somewhere else, in the second slice. Someone is sitting downstairs. Maybe a girl is sitting inside a circle or at the corner of a square. She doesn't move. Staring at me, without any proof. Always at the corner of every square is sitting a girl staring at somebody who is not a square, and who has no relationship to any line or sign. Somebody who cannot identify the shapes, but live here with that girl. Somebody who is not blind, but looks at this picture indifferently and passes it unfriendly. He said turn over the cage. What a beautiful image!

Third slice:

The square turns into a larger one. As you close your eyelid, another square will be generated. As you take a breath, the square turns into a larger one. As you close your eyelid, another square will be generated. As you take a breath, the square turns into a larger one.

 

Fourth slice:
It is our forth slice of the life and also it is his birthday tonight. We decorate the knife. You should have a slice of the cake, we say. You have to shake your leg, dance step by step, that takes the cake, he says. We don't dance, it is a piece of cake, we say. She turns off the candles' light, looks at that side. It is the circle of the cake, under the roof; four walls just can prove that we are here. A prison says: I am a piece of cake. Who can make me escape? Take a picture of my life please. I turn the lights off; the cream of the cake is the only bright of naked. All the guests go away. It is dark here in your photograph; nothing has its real graph, this chain is a candle. This is not a sample. Somebody can handle it well, or give it another name. We can write it again:

 

 

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